


The More Things Change

by Aiashi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Gen, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23459146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiashi/pseuds/Aiashi
Summary: In 1257, the Dark Lord disappeared without a trace, his war on Temeria lost in a single night. Now, a young boy named Harry will find that his future is far more exciting than he expected. A little too exciting, really. He would much prefer if it calmed down, even a little. [Fusion AU]
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue

The year was 1257, and the Northern Kingdoms had finally stopped holding their breath.

No one would think to make the claim that they were unused to conflict. War, famine, political intrigue, marriage woes, or a brawl at the pub. Most people lived through at least one. That another crisis had come and gone was hardly unusual. Nations went to war, atrocities were committed in the name of honour and commerce, and people died. Everyone, from figures of state to smallfolk, they knew how it went. Those affected would dust off their clothes, bury their dead, and move on with their lives. For everyone else? It was prime gossip material.

—

Did you hear? The mad sorcerer who tortured King Medell senseless and threw Temeria into chaos? A man pale as death, they say he tore his own nose off in some demonic ritual. Apparently he was a learned man, being tutored in those foul arts at some well-to-do school, if you can believe it. Thought to call himself a Dark Lord, recruiting schoolmates and likeminded freaks to his cause. Lots of strife, magical folk taking different sides and slaughtering each other in droves. Some were even nobles! Proper high society types, all posh and polish, throwing hexes at each other with wands in the streets. This so-called Dark Lord had a wand as well, and by all accounts he wielded devilish power. No, I don't know his proper name. Seems anyone with a speck of mysticism about them knows to keep mum about it. Name is cursed, or so they say.

Here comes the strangest part of the story. The Dark Lord was defeated at the height of his power, and on the cusp of success. Gone in a single night. How could that be right? What happened to him? Where's he gone? Well, I'll wager a load of folks in high places are tearing their hair out trying to answer those questions. Rumors abound, but no one can agree. Some say that hell opened up to take him back, or it was a ritual gone wrong. It's even been said that a child brought him down, barely out of swaddling clothes. Don't laugh, it's just what I've heard. No one confirming it, no child to be seen, but there have been murmurs. Only reason anyone takes it half-seriously is since they heard it from the magicals. Those who survived and haven't already gone into hiding or begged for mercy, that is.

Schools that churned out these ingrates will have to pay, that's for certain. Kings aren't keen on sorcerers meddling in their affairs. And this? This was meddling the likes of which no one has ever seen. Medell will never be the same, and young Prince Foltest will have to put everything back together as best he can. So those freaks are right to scatter like they did. But the schools will burn all the same. At the very least, other countries ought to keep a sharper eye on their magicals.

Especially whichever school that Dark Lord came from. What was it called? Odd. I swear I've heard the name before, even said it. Must be the drink. Don't you remember? Come on, it's been the talk of the town for days now. Someone's got to remember what it was called, or where it is. It's in Temeria, right? I could have sworn it was, but I'm not sure at all now.

—

Again, prime gossip material. Anyone could get a kick out of mystical events such as these. Even children entertained themselves with games of magic and wizardry. Fathers returning home would regale their sons and daughters with stories of miracles and plagues. But some children were still too young to understand. They laughed in the excitement or cried in the confusion. In the arms of an enormous bearded man, one such child slept soundly; happily ignorant of any sorcerers or magical wars, on his way to live with his mother's family.

And on his forehead was a scar like lightning.


	2. Strangers In Clayborne

The people of Clayborne considered themselves to be a perfectly respectable village. Near one hundred souls, going by the last time someone came by to take count. They made their coin in bricks and worked in clay, thanks in large part to their position on the Yaruga. Sitting peacefully on the edge of the river in the Pontar Valley, they were proud subjects of his majesty Demavend III, King of Aedirn.

But for all that they would leap to defend any transgression against King or country, the village's denizens were oftentimes relieved to be so inconsequential. Bricks and shingles and clay, they were good trade, may the market for them never run dry. Yet they were hardly comparable to those sprawling towns with salt pits, or mines for precious metals. There was more coin in those things, to be sure, but coin like that brought in scores of vultures. Merchants and money lenders, thugs and tax collectors. It was all too much trouble to bother with. Bricks were simple, but they were necessary. So the people of Clayborne were perfectly respectable and utterly unremarkable. But most of all, they were content.

Well, most of them were. There were a few who loved grumbling and complaining and shouting. Namely, Master Vernon and his family. He was called Master Vernon on account of him being in charge of ferrying shipments of bricks down the river, and him insisting on being called a Master. When it counted, he and his family could smile and be pleasant, but most days they always found time to voice their opinions of other people's affairs.

Vernon himself would criticize the laborers and advise them on how best to do their work. Petunia, Vernon's spindly wife, delighted in eavesdropping on her neighbors and repeating private news in hushed tones to her friends in their embroidery circle. By her efforts, her family was always dressed to impress. There was also Dudley, their son and the apple of their eye. Dudley was a wretch. A foul, loathsome, evil beast of a boy. Dudley was a terror on the village, a layabout who never failed to get out of work. Dudley...

Dudley had probably convinced the other children to ditch Harry to try and make him look foolish.

It wouldn't be the first time, the boy thought bitterly. Bending over to pick up a moss ridden stone, he chucked it at a tree. He missed, but it was pretty close and he was barely trying anyway.

This was Harry, the wild-haired nephew of Petunia, with a face scrunched into a scowl and a strange scar on his forehead. Harry never dressed to impress, and he rarely felt the need to smile and be pleasant. This was mostly because Petunia claimed that he was a waste of good fabric, and she was always suspicious whenever Harry smiled about anything.

This was more than a little unfair. If you caught Harry with his guard down, you would find him to be kind, quick, and altogether starved of attention. Unfortunately, this was something that anyone who cared to know, already knew. Mostly the other children, and Dudley above all. This meant that Harry's guard was almost never down. When it was, things like this happened.

Why today was any different, he couldn't say. Everyone had been in good cheer after finishing their morning chores, and a group of children made the executive decision to play a game of hide and go seek. To Harry's great shock, he had been invited.

Though he remained doubtful, several rounds went by without issue. It was fun, actually. With Dudley bedridden and whimpering about a bellyache, the rest of the children had seemingly forgotten that they were not supposed to like Harry.

Still, it had to happen eventually. It was Harry's turn to be the seeker, and everyone had fled the backwoods they were playing in. Rodric and Cass, Fera and Melvin. Even Alfons, that hulking slob, was nowhere to be found. Being confined to a sickbed was evidently not enough to keep Dudley from plotting and scheming to stop his cousin from having fun.

Harry looked up and squinted at the tree branches, half expecting to see all of them snickering and holding on for dear life. Maybe even Dudley, red-nosed and snot-faced, laughing his boorish laugh. Harry wouldn't put it past him.

Picking up another stone, Harry threw it into the branches and hit fake-Dudley square in the face. The boy cried out and lost his balance, plummeting to the forest floor and breaking all of his limbs at once. Vernon and Petunia would beg and plead, but the herbalist would only shake her head sadly. ' _He will never walk again, or be able to punch Harry at all,_ ' she would say. Dudley would live out his life in bed, being hand-fed by Petunia, only able to gaze out his window and wonder at what could have been.

Now bored of the fantasy, Harry turned and started back towards the village.

If they were watching him faff about, then they were being awfully sneaky about it. More likely they had run off, retreating to some corner in the village to cackle and plot their next move. Harry couldn't be bothered to care. It was fun while it lasted. But now it was time to knick a loaf of bread and go hide by the river.

Petunia would be furious when she found out, and Harry would no doubt be punished. But the alternative was waiting for Dudley to knick a loaf, only for Harry to get blamed for it anyway. He was only trying to be proactive.

When Harry made it back to the edge of the village, he stopped and stared. This was getting ridiculous.

No one was around. Tools and crates had been left unattended. A young deer carcass was half skinned, with a knife jutting out of the log next to it. The only thing making a sound was the pair of goats Alfons' parents kept, bleating softly at Harry as he passed. Seemed like everyone had just up and left. Surely they weren't _all_ in on the joke, were they? He refused to believe it. Even Dudley couldn't pull off something like that.

Though it would certainly be impressive.

By the time Harry made it to their house, the great mystery of the disappeared villagers had gone ahead and solved itself. Loads of commotion was coming from the village head's house. Harry could see the crowd from their doorway, though he couldn't tell what they were clambering about. Something trivial, if he had to guess.

Still, there was no sense in wasting the opportune moment. Harry opened the door and stepped inside, closing the latch behind him. The smell of fresh bread filled his nostrils, and he forgot all about the people gathered in the village center. Treading lightly, he peeked around the corner into Dudley's room.

Why Dudley had a room of his own was a question no one asked anymore, lest they subject themselves to a speech from Petunia about how her special boy needed his special space.

There he was, the great big oaf, sprawled on his mattress and snoring like a wild boar. It was hard to miss him, by sight or by sound. Harry suspected that his noisy nighttime breathing was the true reason Vernon and Petunia put him in a different room, but they would never admit as much.

After a moment, Harry had assured himself that Dudley wouldn't awaken in a rage and squeal on him to Petunia, so he stepped away and went back outside. Being sneaky wouldn't stop him from getting in trouble, but having that headstart was vital.

Making his way around the house, Harry stopped when he saw the oven. _Three whole loaves._ Freshly baked, still cooling, the aroma was intoxicating. And here they were, sitting in a row, all by themselves. Harry closed his mouth and swallowed. Quickly looking back towards the crowd, he tried to relax. He still had time. Any one of them would work, there was no need to be greedy and tempt fate by taking more.

He was amazed that Dudley hadn't already taken the lot. The boy must actually be ill.

Enough thinking, the time was now. The distraction wouldn't last forever, and Harry wanted to be well away when Petunia came back. One of them was slightly burnt on one side and would be missed the least out of the three. Harry was just thoughtful like that.

Reaching out, he grabbed the loaf with both hands and brought it straight to his face. He inhaled deeply.

It smelled like victory.

"Is that you, Dudley?"

Harry froze. Turning his head, he didn't dare move otherwise. He didn't speak either.

Standing a few yards away, her small form supported by the long stick she leaned on, was Maryam. Maryam was the oldest woman in the village by at least a decade. Her eyes had almost completely failed her, but she was still very fond of quilting and listening to daily life in the village. Her quilting was often strange, on account of the poor vision, but it was always skillfully made otherwise.

She was also Petunia's mother, and Harry's grandmother. And Harry very much did not want her to speak to him, or hear him, or see him.

Evidently, he was quite alone in this.

Maryam narrowed her eyes directly at Harry, or maybe it was the oven behind him.

"No, you're not Dudley. He breathes like a dying horse these days," she said, her voice crackling in pitch. Then she sighed, feeling for and sitting down on a crate beside her. She gestured impatiently in his direction. "Come now, Harry. Quit standing around so still and silent. Have you come from over by the forest?"

Harry groaned, and his shoulders slumped. "Yes, gran."

She hummed. "I thought so. Make yourself useful for a minute, and tell me what's gotten into everyone. They all rushed off like a pack of wolves without saying what for."

Remembering the crowd by the village center, Harry turned and checked again. They were slightly closer, and he could finally make out whoever was in the center of it all. Vernon was hard to miss, and Petunia was probably hidden somewhere behind his body.

"Everyone's down at the village center," he said, narrowing his eyes to try and pick out details. "Seems they're talking to some man. Might be a messenger, or something."

"Does he _look_ like a messenger? Be specific, boy."

"Well, I guess not… He might be a merchant. All dressed in fine black robes."

"Not a messenger then."

"Fine, yes. Not a messenger," he said, glaring at her slightly before turning back. "Maybe not even a merchant. His wagon is covered, and he looks too suspect for a merchant. Long black hair and black robes, and mean-looking. Very mean." Harry was starting to understand the sudden interest this man had caused. "Wonder what he's here about."

"He sounds dreadful," she said, clearly amused.

Harry huffed. "He looks dreadful as well, that's for certain. An eyesore. Oh, but look there!" he cried, eyes widening as another figure came into view. "It's a giant! A great beast of a man. Two or three heads over Vernon, with a huge beard and arms like tree trunks."

Beside Harry, his grandmother had gone very still, and very quiet.

He hoped he hadn't worried her. You never knew what could tip an older person over the edge.

"But I'm sure it's alright," he said quickly, trying to sound reassuring. He was nearly positive it hadn't worked. "I'll run and find out for sure, then let you know what's happening."

He heard her calling his name as he ran off, but Harry was very eager to know why these two were here. The great mystery of why the whole village had run off was hardly a mystery at all, as it turned out. One of them looked like some sort of dour nobleman, and the other was a behemoth. What could they be selling? Were they here to terrorize the village or conscript soldiers? Harry's mind was buzzing with ridiculous ideas.

Rounding the corner of one of the houses, Harry finally found where the other children had gone.

"Why'd you lot run off and not tell me?" he hissed, elbowing his way beside them to peek around the side of the wagon.

"No way we was waiting around a second longer, just look at him!" Rodric said, his hand trembling as he pointed at the giant. "He's surely some kind of mountain barbarian, come to flay the whole village alive and feed us to the goats."

Fera scoffed and tossed her chestnut hair back. "Don't be _stupid_ , Rodric. He's a bodyguard, and nothing more." Although she too failed to conceal the excitement in her voice. "I wonder who that man in black could be? Is he maybe an alderman, come from Vengerberg? Are we getting a new charter?"

Shouldering Fera aside, Melvin peered over at the mysterious visitors. He snorted. "A charter? For a shite village like ours? Don't _you_ be stupid, Fera. Like as not he's some crazed, mystical man, here to do dark deeds with that damn herbalist down the way."

"Thewth no wagh e'th ah mythtic. Wook at ehm," Alfons said, trying and failing to talk through the bread stuffed in his mouth. "E'th ah nobl'mun fohm th— ow!"

Harry pushed him away, clutching the remains of his bread protectively. "Alfons, you fat lard! This is _mine_. Keep your grubby hands off it."

"Ooh, that smells good. Look, Harry's brought bread for all of us!"

"No, you can't have any. It's _mine_."

"It's _yours?_ Where did you even get it? You can't bake, Harry. We've all seen you try."

"I found it," he said lamely.

Cass twirled a lock of hair around her finger, smiling prettily at him. "Oh, _please_ , Harry. Do you think it would be alright if I had some? Just a bit, I promise."

Harry cursed himself inwardly. Now was _not_ the time for butterflies to appear in his stomach in such overwhelming force. But they had arrived all the same because this was Cass, and not Fera. He felt his resolve quickly slipping away from him.

"I'll tell your aunt if you don't," Alfons said with a lazy grin.

And there went the rest of his resolve, all at once.

As a last act of defiance, Harry blew a fat raspberry at Alfons. What a git.

He knew enough to know that this was a losing battle. Honestly, it was his fault for carrying the stupid loaf over here at all. But like everyone else he had been completely distracted by the visitors and their wagon. The only thing he could do now was eat as much bread as possible while everyone reached and snatched handfuls away.

"Oh, you're the best, Harry!"

"Wish we had some milk…"

" _Ew,_ this piece is all burnt up. Harry, switch with me, you can have this one."

"I don't want it either— Hey! Give that back!"

With all six of them, the loaf didn't have long to live. Inside of a minute, it was gone, and everyone was wiping their mouths or hiding smaller pieces for later. Alfons, the deplorable sod, was looking far too full and content for Harry's liking. As they crowded back by the corner of the wagon, or under it in Rodric's case, Harry made sure to poke Alfons hard in the stomach as revenge.

"What are they even talking about?" Harry asked, squinting hard to see if he could maybe figure out how to read lips sometime soon. "I can't tell. Are they arguing? Might be that they're arguing."

Melvin hummed in thought. "Might be right. Vernon— oh, my apologies, _Master Vernon_ , he looks right mad at them"

"He always looks like that," Fera said, "Doesn't mean anything."

She was right, of course. Not that anyone would tell her, smug as she was. Vernon was usually angry. When he wasn't angry, he was annoyed. He also despised anything unusual, and this was very unusual. Either he was getting a raw deal on some exotic trade, or he was lecturing them on their life choices. Or both. It was probably both.

"Hold on," Melvin said, scratching his scalp. "Where did that giant go? He was there just before."

Harry gasped, climbing up the side of the wagon to look over the top. "He's gone entirely! When did he move? I can't see him anywhere."

"You can't see _anything_ , Harry," Fera said, climbing up and fighting him for space. "You've got the eyes of an old chicken, I swear it. You couldn't spot a giant if he was right in front of you, snatching the shoes off your feet."

"It's not _that_ bad," he said, scowling at her.

Rodric laughed from under the wagon. "Oh, _yes it is._ Funny your gran has you describe things to her. You sure most of it ain't made up?"

"Harry has practice, he likes daydreamin' anyways."

As they were squabbling, a great big shadow slowly came over them from behind. Looking up, Harry frowned. He was no scholar of the sky, or anything like that, but he was fairly certain it was still early in the day. No clouds, either. Then there was the smell. He sniffed. Sweat and grime. The village was hardly kept spotless, but this smell was new and sudden.

"Oh, what _is_ that stench?" Cass whined, covering her nose and gagging. "Rodric, have you soiled yourself?"

"Stuff it, Cass. I stopped doing that ages ago."

" _Someone_ had to have done it."

With a sense of impending doom, Harry turned to look behind him. Then his stomach dropped.

The giant was much larger in person, he realized.

"Uh… I— uhm…" he paused, hastily clearing his throat. His voice was still very small. "I found the giant."

"Where? I don't see him," Melvin muttered, glancing to see where Harry was looking. Following his gaze, the boy shrieked.

He _shrieked_. Like a little girl. He would never live this down, Fera would tease him until he died of embarrassment. Besides that, his cry of alarm startled everyone else into action. Well, _'action'_ was perhaps too strong of a word. Panic, more like. Cass and Fera also shrieked, but nobody would call them out for it. They hopped off the wagon, sprinting for their parents. Melvin fell to the ground in his surprise and started crawling through the mud.

"Why did I get _under_ the wagon?! This was a _mad, mad_ idea!" cried Rodric.

Harry saved his dignity by _not_ yelling and jumped away. A great leap, higher and higher he went. Alarmingly high.

And he wasn't coming down. _Why_ wasn't he coming down? Then he felt it, and realized. Someone, or some _thing_ , had grabbed the back of his tunic and hoisted him far into the air. Harry stared down at the ground, wide-eyed. If he fell from this far up, his legs would snap like twigs! He squirmed and reached up to slap at the monstrous fist that held him up.

"Put me down! I've done nothing, please!" he said, still refusing to yell. But he was not above begging for his life. "You can have the shoes, take them. Just don't flay me alive! My skin, it's very special to me!"

Then the giant laughed. A deep, bellowing laugh that shook Harry's bones.

"Oh, that'll ne'er get old. Quit yer squirmin', lest I drop ye by mistake," he said merrily. Moving Harry higher, he turned him so they were face to face. He smiled wide, and Harry couldn't help but stare in horror at his big teeth. "Well, I'll be. Been an' age an' a half since I seen ye, Harry. Ye're a grown sprog, now."

Hearing his name, Harry stopped squirming for a moment. He gave the giant another once over and frowned. "Very sorry, but… Do we— I'm… Are you _sure_ we've met?"

Harry was sure he would remember meeting someone like this.

He nodded and sighed sadly. "Aye, but ye'd nay remember it. Little more'n a babe, ye were, when I brought ye here… Oh, years back, it was."

This was quite a lot to take in all at once. Was this Harry's father? No, he quashed that thought immediately. Harry wasn't nearly as strong, or as good at growing facial hair. He should know, he had tried repeatedly. Rodric had bragged about his few chin hairs, and he was twelve, only a year older. But this man had been the one to bring Harry here?

Harry opened his mouth, though he was not at all sure what to ask, when a different voice came from by the square. This one was articulate, more reserved, and sounded far less excited to be in this situation.

"Must you insist on terrorizing the local youths, Hagrid?"

'Hagrid' turned and brought Harry with him, lifting him up again and pointing at him. "Weren't nothin' of the sort, Severus. Look at here, I was just lookin' round for him, and 'ere he is. Got the scar, an' the hair. Besides, I'd know that face anywhere."

Severus, and Hagrid. He thought hard, but neither of those names was familiar at all. Although that might not mean much, if they knew him from when he was only a baby.

There was a short pause, as Severus strode over to where Hagrid was standing. He scanned Harry intently. Brow furrowing, his eyes slowed to a stop when they reached his scar. Behind the man, Harry could see that the rest of the villagers, and the traitors who had left him, were all watching. Staring. Vernon and Petunia looked outraged, which was small comfort. Even so, Harry was not fond of all this attention.

Especially since he was still hanging in the air.

"Hm, I suppose you've done well. This must be him," he said. He glanced over at Petunia, who only gave a clipped nod, before turning back.

"Like I said, spittin' image of James Potter."

 _James Potter._ Harry wasn't sure, but the name sounded significant. Family names often were.

Wait. The spitting image? But that would mean...

"You knew my parents? My mum? My dad?" Harry blurted out in a rush, gaping at Severus.

His lip curled in disdain, but he did reply after a few seconds. "After a fashion."

In an instant, Harry had dozens, hundreds of questions he wanted to ask. How did he know them? What were they like? What did they do for a living? Why had they left him with his aunt and uncle? These and many more. Harry had _never_ been able to ask questions about his parents. Asking Petunia about her sister was asking to be put to work for being nosy, and asking his gran only ever ended up making her sad and quiet. Neither was willing to tell him anything of worth. All they ever said was this; that they died a year or two after he was born.

Before he could voice any of his questions, Petunia hurried over. Vernon slowly lumbered after her. "We shall _not_ be discussing this business in public," she hissed, glaring at the three of them. "If we must talk at all, let it be in privacy, or I'll never hear the end of it."

Severus exhaled slowly, then nodded. "True enough, this has caused enough commotion as it is. Would your home be acceptable?"

"Absolutely not. My little Dudley is sick and bedridden. I won't have you upsetting him." She paused, hesitating, before pointing down the way. "There's a herbalist, down there. She won't mind her space being used for a bit. Pay her, if needs be."

"Herbalist?" Severus repeated quietly. Then he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. " _Ah_ , yes. That won't be an issue."

Vernon finally caught up, clearing his throat and spitting off to the side. "Shall I go with you, love? These freaks look dangerous, an' you know I don't like you going to see that witch. Least of all for this ungrateful brat," he said, scowling at Harry.

"She makes tea for our Duddie-kins, Vernon. He'll get better soon with it, then we can leave her alone again," Petunia said, embracing him from the side. The parts she could reach, anyway. Then she jerked her head at Severus. "Him, at least, I recognize. They won't be an issue. Stay here, and get everyone back to their own business. It's what you do best, husband."

Now mollified, Vernon nodded with a grunt. "Indeed. See you soon."

With a parting glare, Vernon made his way back to the crowd and began berating them for standing around. Harry noticed the other kids, looking at him with amazed expressions. He flushed and waved at them.

"Come along, then," Petunia said, already walking ahead. "Let's get this over with."

Severus followed, and Hagrid started to as well. Then he finally remembered to set Harry down.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said sheepishly, "Got a wee bit distracted, see."

"Oh, that's alright," Harry quickly replied, reaching back to rub at his neck. He looked up at Hagrid and tried his best to smile. It was easier, now that he wasn't afraid for his life. "I ended up pretty distracted, myself. Barely even noticed, so don't you worry."

He was lying through his teeth, but Hagrid no longer looked embarrassed, and that made it alright.

It was probably best not to upset the giant.


End file.
